


Red Hood

by envysparkler



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Jason Todd Returns Home, Jason Todd is Not Red Hood, Jason Todd-centric, Resurrected Jason Todd, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:00:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28947072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/envysparkler/pseuds/envysparkler
Summary: Gotham doesn’t relinquish her soldiers, no matter how far they’ve fallen from the nest.
Comments: 147
Kudos: 475





	1. Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Your irregular reminder that I've never touched a DC comic in my life, but as far as my limited knowledge gleaned from notes and comments goes, this is going to be a rewrite of Lost Days.
> 
> To those of you that know me on discord and tumblr, this is the red hood longfic I've been talking about. I know, I know, imaginative title, but there is a reason for it.
> 
> This is me rewriting everything post-Lazarus Pit. _Everything_. All sparked by a simple idea - remember fifteen-year-old Jason? Remember the kid that died - trained and dangerous, but not _deadly_. Not yet.
> 
> What if we drop _that_ Jason back in Gotham? What if we drop a Jason still getting used to his new body, a Jason who's never learned how to kill, a Jason that's lost and hurt and confused and alone and angry?

He opened his eyes to green.

It was burning, choking, acidic and bitter – laughter was ringing through his ears, high and sharp and malicious – he squeezed his eyes shut and blindly made his way to the surface.

He broke it with a gasp, taking a huge gulp of _air_ – no smoke, nothing burning, no acrid taste of smog – before haphazardly wiping at his eyes.

_Assess your surroundings_ , a low voice rumbled in his mind, accompanied by half-memories of patient lectures and methodical training. _Where are you? Who is with you? How did you get there?_

He – he didn’t know. Stone all around him, trapping him – his breaths grew faster and shallower – green light shimmering darkly off the walls. Green light. Green _pool_.

He looked down – he didn’t know what he was looking at, but the instinctive part of his brain told him that anything that bright and glowing was _not to be touched_.

He grasped for the edge of the pool, stone cold and wet under his fingers – his hands looked weird, too smooth, too _big_ – and he pushed himself out with shaking muscles.

It _hurt_. It hurt like an overextended muscle. It hurt like he hadn’t been moving or walking or reaching for _days_ , like he’d been forced into a body not yet broken in. He was gasping by the time he got his knees under him, gasping and shivering and shaking.

The room – tomb – cave – was cold. His clothes – his robes? – were sticking to him, thin cotton plastered to his skin. He couldn’t stop his heaving gulps of air.

_Calm down_ , the familiar voice said, _breathe with me, Jay_.

He was _trying_.

“Come with me,” an impatient voice said – out loud, not in his head, not a half-fragmented memory. He looked up – hand outstretched, fingernails painted – and instinctively recoiled.

_Danger_ , blared five different parts of his mind, shrieking about betrayal and dread and _don’t trust her can’t trust her mom how could you do this to me_ – before he followed the hand up to an unfamiliar face.

Dark skin. Green eyes. Dark hair. Not blonde and blue-eyed, no cigarette rolled between nonchalant fingers, no hard-eyed look in response to his confusion.

“We must leave,” the woman tutted, frowning, “Quickly.” Now that he was looking, she _did_ seem familiar – like he’d seen her in a photo, maybe. Her eyes narrowed imperiously, “We will be found if we do not move.”

Being found was bad. He knew that very well.

He reached out – that couldn’t be his hand, that couldn’t be his _arm_ – and placed wavering fingers in a callused palm. She tightened her grip and pulled, and suddenly he was much higher off the ground then he’d been before.

He felt like he was on stilts, stumbling after the woman as she held his wrist and led him through dark, twisting, suffocating tunnels – he remembered screaming, he remembered clawing, he remembered crying out for Bruce – as his skin alternately felt too loose and too tight.

_What_ , he wanted to say, but nothing came out of his throat when he went looking for words, and the world was dizzy and too loud, too cold, too _much_ –

The blast of cold air felt like a crowbar to the face.

He stumbled, instinctively curling away from the breeze – they were outside now, darkness giving way to pinpricks of light in the sky and a roiling, seething mess underneath them. The tunnel they’d come from was a yawning abyss, and the woman had let go of his hand to fiddle with a bag.

She pressed the bag into his arms – rough, heavy, the seam of the zipper biting into too-soft skin – and regarded him with those cold, fierce green eyes.

He stared back. He needed – he wanted – he had – his mind was empty and he needed _something_ to hold onto –

“You remain unavenged,” she said softly.

And then she _pushed_.

He fell. He hit the water, shuddering as icy ripples pulled at him, tugging at his clothes. The words swirling in his head, flitting around like butterflies. Powerful kicks – it hurt, his limbs were cramping and shuddering and weak – propelled him up.

Jason Todd broke the surface with a gasp.

* * *

He didn’t know how long he stayed in the water, clutching the bag and remembering how to breathe – remembering how to _live_ – but he eventually realized that he was in a river, and the current was getting stronger.

Jason pushed towards the riverbank, startling himself with the force the simple kick gave him, and caught the rocky edge with his strangely uncallused hands, shifting the sodden bag to one arm as he pulled himself out.

His shaky arms nearly gave out, but he managed to drag himself onto the bank before they collapsed entirely.

He stayed there, rolling over onto his back, and stared up – the sky was brightening slightly, sun rising somewhere beyond the dark mountain ridges, and the stars were fading.

He remembered thinking he would never see a star again.

He – he remembered _dying_.

He remembered coming back.

He remembered – laughter and pain and _screaming_ and – no.

No.

_No_.

He had to – he couldn’t – he – he couldn’t – no. He had to focus on something else. On the stars. On the mountains. On the strange, otherworldly clarity, the way everything felt too jarringly _real_ , from the water freezing on his skin to the weave of the robes pressing against him, to the pebbles digging into his back.

Mountains. There were no mountains near Gotham.

Where the hell _was_ he?

Jason slowly pushed himself upright, staring at the river – the _river_ , not the ocean, not salty and polluted, not _green_ and _acidic_ – and the barren land around him, no trace of person or animal in sight. Nothing but the mountains and the stars and the brightening sky.

And the backpack.

  
Jason dragged it closer to him and fumbled for the zippers – it was a simple bag, only two pockets. The first was full with water bottles and ration bars – at which point Jason realized he was _starving_ , and tore through five ration bars, not registering the taste, until a stray thought niggled at him about rationing and saving for later, because he didn’t know when he’d eat next. Jason finished the sixth bar and opened a water bottle, going through two of those before his thirst was sated.

Head slightly clearer, he turned to the other contents of the backpack. Some strange device, apparently not damaged by its stay in the water – Jason wiped the drops off the surface and pressed the button on the side – immediately, grid lines lit up on the surface, showing two blinking yellow dots, one smaller than the other, about seven grid boxes apart.

The second object was a compass. The river was behind him, due south, while to the north lay the shrinking peaks of the mountains.

Jason packed up the rest of the bag and pushed himself up onto shaky legs before walking forward.

After walking for about a minute, he could see that the smaller blinking dot had moved towards the larger one. He looked at the compass, the dot, and changed direction – he needed to go…slightly north-west if he wanted to see whatever was at the second yellow dot.

The woman had given him this bag. The woman that had put him in the green water. Jason was _not_ trusting another strange woman, not after what had happened with the last one.

He wanted to go home. He wanted – he wanted –

_Bruce_.

Laughter, high and sickening and cruel, the flash of metal and the _crunch_ , the screaming but it was too late, time ticked out, and then –

Pain. More pain than anything he’d felt before, because it made sense that it _hurt_ to tear a soul out of a body – because he died, because he came back, because –

Deep breaths. _Breathe with me, Jay_ , the low voice rumbled, and Jason let out a sharp cry, falling to his knees, hands pressed over his ears like that would stop the laughter echoing inside his skull.

Breathe. In for four, hold for eight, out for seven. In for four, hold for eight, out for seven. Again. Again.

Jason lowered shaking hands. The air stung the inside of his nose, cold and pure – not dry and hot, not smog-choked, and that was enough to ground him.

He wasn’t in Gotham. He wasn’t going to trust the woman. But he had no clue where he was – whether Gotham was east or west, north or south – the woman had an accent, but Jason couldn’t pinpoint it – he didn’t know where to _go_.

Blinking yellow dot it was.

_“You remain unavenged.”_

The words niggled at him, like a stray patch of dead skin he couldn’t quite get off.

* * *

A watch was not among the contents of the backpack, but the sun was still low in the sky – mid-morning, if Jason had to guess – by the time he neared the spot marked on the locator. His legs had started cramping halfway through, and his pace had slowed considerably by the end, his muscles sore and aching.

It was frustrating – Jason had spent longer flying through the air, jumping from roofs and –

_“I caught a little birdie!”_

It was _frustrating_. He felt weak, like a newborn foal trying to find his legs, and his mood wasn’t improved by the giant steaming pile of _nothing_ he found when his dot finally intersected with the other one.

“Are you kidding me?” Jason said out loud – his voice was hoarse, and lower than he was used to. He spent half a minute trying to clear his throat before he realized that the crackling, growly voice was actually _his_.

Did he get swapped into a new body? He had a sickening wave of _wrong wrong wrong_ , only arrested by the sudden appearance of someone dressed in dark brown robes.

“Who are you?” Jason demanded, stumbling a step back and wincing at the sound of his voice.

The person narrowed their eyes, and turned on one heel, beckoning him to follow.

“Excuse me?” Jason called out again, “ _Who are you_?”

“I have been sent by Lady Talia,” the stranger said flatly, “Come.”

And who the everloving fuck was _Lady Talia_? Jason was _done_ with following strangers, he’d learned that lesson, okay, and he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

“Come,” the stranger beckoned again, their face falling into a frown, and Jason tightened his grip on the bag – the mountains were full of crevices and narrow valleys, if he got a good head start –

Someone coughed behind him, and Jason whirled around to see another person in the same dark brown robes, giving him a cold look. They raised an eyebrow. Frowny scowled even harder.

It was only two against one. Jason had gone against greater odds before.

But not in a strange location. Not when his whole body was cramping or jittery. Not confused and lost and alone.

Jason did not hide his glare, but followed the stranger.

They were walking a path with no visible marker – Jason couldn’t tell how _this_ stretch of gravelly scrubland was different from the one ten steps over, but he cursed and stumbled across the uneven terrain, feeling the burn in his lungs as they climbed up and up and up, until they reached a narrow crevice that could charitably be called a mountain pass.

Jason stopped, his legs rooted to the spot, and refused to move.

“Come,” Frowny said, looking impatient. He couldn’t see Cough Drop, but presumably they were hovering somewhere behind him.

Jason couldn’t move, though. His legs had locked up and refused to loosen, his throat going dry at the sight of the narrow almost-tunnel between sheer, high cliff faces.

It wasn’t an enclosed space, his mind pointed out rather logically. There would be nothing above his head. Unless there was a rockslide.

His body refused to take that on faith.

“ _Come_ ,” Frowny snarled.

“No,” Jason retorted, stumbling back. The scowl only grew.

So what? What could they do to him? If they wanted him dead, he’d be dead – he’d _been_ dead, and something had brought him back, and he didn’t want to do the whole dance all over again.

It had hurt. Oh, gods, it had hurt _so much_.

They could force him through that crevice. They could, and they would. And when Jason imagined being manhandled through that narrow space, helpless and vulnerable, his heart rate kicked up, his breaths suddenly too-short, especially when drawing from thin mountain air.

Jason took a wobbly step forward. And another. Frowny turned back around and disappeared into the narrow gap.

Another step. He could hear his harsh breathing echo discordantly against the stone.

Another step. The shadows fell across his face, as quickly and completely as darkness. Stone brushed the sides of his arms. Light narrowed to a thin strip in the distance, the edge of it smudged by the stranger guiding him forward.

_Claustrophobia_. Jason added it to the list of things he was discovering about himself.

Green pool. The woman that pushed him off a fucking cliff. The mountains. The strangers. The – no, he couldn’t remember that, it sent him into screams and sobs. No remembering.

He felt like he was holding half the pieces to a puzzle he’d chosen to complete blindfolded and, so far, it wasn’t very fun.

His pace was slow. _Glacial_. Which was funny, come to think of it, because these jagged mountain ranges were carved by glaciers, weren’t they? Some ice-fed mountain stream had chiseled out this narrow crevice, and there wasn’t a single drop of water left to bear it witness.

Focus on glaciers, on rivers, on _anything_ except the way that rough stone was pressing against his upper arms, the way his breathing was too-harsh and too-loud in the shadows –

Gasping, a dying rattle, and it echoed oddly off of broken beams and rubble –

Loud, desperate wheezes, depleting all the oxygen left as the sounds were muffled by cool satin –

There was a sharp throb of pain in his palms, and Jason realized he’d clenched his hands into fists so tightly they’d started bleeding. He relaxed them, and blood welled up, trailing down his fingers to drip against the ground.

They were shaking. _He_ was shaking.

Another step. Another. Another. The light was brighter now. Frowny had already reached the end. The walls weren’t closing in, they _weren’t_ , Jason’s imagination could stop running wild any second now, thanks.

When he finally made it to the other side, Jason wanted to collapse to his knees in relief. Maybe cry. His eyes were prickling and his breathing was still a little too fast, but Frowny only waited for him to appear before starting forward again. This time downhill.

Jason refused to match their pace. He was sore and exhausted and _aching_ , he could feel the sharp throbbing of blisters on his feet, the disconnect in his memories was growing glaringly large, a giant shrieking ‘LOOK AT ME’ sign in his brain even as he tried to ignore it, and he just wanted –

_“B – Bruce. Bruce. Please, I think I’m going to die.”_

Fuck what he wanted. He didn’t know what he wanted. He didn’t know _anything_. He wanted – he wanted _quiet_.

He wanted a hug, he wanted soft, warm, safe arms wrapping around him in a cocoon of protection and –

No. Not thinking about that. Following Frowny it was.

He could tell he’d pissed off his…guide? Kidnapper? – because when Jason finally caught up to them, the stranger was in a full-grown thunderous scowl, standing next to a mottled dusty brown tarp thrown over what – judging by shape and size – was probably a small truck.

Frowny tugged off the tarp, and it turned out Jason’s guessing skills hadn’t been rusted by death.

They handed Jason a black hood. “Put that on,” they instructed, and then motioned to the back of the truck.

Jason looked at the hood. And looked at them.

Cough Drop made a small _ahem_ behind him and Jason nearly jumped out of his skin, jeez, the person was silent.

“Where are you taking me?” Jason snarled, hiding his wince at the rusty growl that was apparently his voice now.

“Where Lady Talia wants you to go,” Frowny said imperiously, “We do not question the lady’s wishes. Neither do you. Put the hood on, and get in.”

So this _was_ a kidnapping. Nice to know.

For a distinct lack of other options, Jason swung himself up into the back of the truck, and tugged on the hood. One door slammed, which meant that either Cough Drop somehow managed to close doors without a sound, or was currently hanging around in the back with him.

The joke was on these losers anyway. He’d been taught how to map directions while blindfolded, so he knew how far they were going to go, and which general direction, and how to get back.

* * *

…So maybe the joke _wasn’t_ on them. It turned out that mapping directions in a city – on an actual road, with turns and speed limits and traffic lights – was _not_ the same as mapping directions while the truck bumped along rugged terrain in a random direction for _hours_.

It was also possible that Jason had fallen asleep despite the jostling, his sore muscles and blistering feet thankful for the rest, and the rocking motion of the truck strangely soothing. He only realized this when something snapped at his shoulder, jolting him awake as he immediately lashed out – darkness everywhere, cloth against his face –

Cough Drop considerately ripped the hood off of his head before he could work himself up into a panic attack.

The truck was parked in the middle of nowhere, and the only thing that had changed in the scenery was that they were on an actual paved road now. The sun was tilting closer to the horizon, late afternoon, and Jason took several moments to fully blink himself awake.

“Change,” Frowny ordered, thrusting clothes at him. He could see that Frowny and Cough Drop had already changed, out of the dark robes and into woolen shirts and thick pants and shawls – Frowny had theirs around their shoulders, while Cough Drop had wound theirs around their head.

Jason glared at them both, but even sun-dried, the robes he was in were stiff and tacky, and he quickly changed out of them and into the clothes he’d been given – the same thick shirt and sturdy pants, but no shawl.

It was only after he’d taken it off that he realized that the robes he’d been wearing were the same material and color as those of his kidnapper-guides.

Interesting.

They didn’t ask him to wear the hood again, and this time he got to sit in the front, the three of them squished together in the cab of the truck. It was extremely uncomfortable – not because there was no space, but because all three of them were aware that each of them were trained, and the tension chafed.

Jason ignored it as best as he could – they were on an actual road, with road signs, and twinkling lights like a city rising in the distance. The signs were not in a language he understood, but he _did_ manage to narrow down his geographical location.

Russian. Which put him in Asia, or Eastern Europe. Far, _far_ away from Gotham.

His kidnapper-guides made no attempt to ensure his compliance when they pulled up to a building, tipping the scale in the favor of _guide_ – and also _stupid_ – and Jason loitered behind them as they entered a reception room and headed to the desk.

Hotel, Jason was guessing. He paused near the lounge, darted a quick look around him – Frowny was talking to the desk clerk, Cough Drop next to them, no other guests in sight – and picked up the newspaper on the table, quickly folding it and tucking it under his shirt.

Running out on the street wouldn’t do him any good. He was guessing that they were pretending to be civilian – hence the change of clothes – but he needed a lot more to work with than _in Asia or maybe Europe_. He still had his slightly damp backpack, with ten more ration bars and five more bottles of water, but aside from a garden variety compass, he had nothing of value.

No papers, no money, no documentation – he supposed that he could try to find the US embassy, but even if he could prove that he was American, claiming to be a dead boy was unlikely to go over well. He didn’t know any Russian superheroes, and he was pretty sure that claiming to be a dead hero was going to go extremely not well.

Frowny had finished their business at the desk and beckoned Jason forward. Jason pushed down the desire to break those fingers, and managed to regulate his bad mood to only a scowl before stomping over.

Hotel turned out to be correct. Frowny led them to a room on the second floor – tiny room, two beds and a small ensuite bathroom – before giving perfunctory instructions, “Freshen up. We are awaiting Lady Talia’s orders.”

Jason gladly took the opportunity to use an actual bathroom.

His first shock came with the mirror.

He…hadn’t been bodyswapped. Or, if he had, it was into some strange, mutated clone, because Jason could see _himself_ in the mirror, but could also see all the ways the face was just slightly off from how he remembered it.

He was taller, for one. His scars seemed to have disappeared, along with the calluses on his palms – and his feet too, the way they were complaining. His eyes seemed brighter than they usually were, more green than blue, though that could definitely be due to the clothes and shitty lighting.

And there was a shock of white hair at the top of his forehead, like he’d dipped a lock into bleach.

“What the _fuck_ happened?” Jason whispered hoarsely. His voice was just another reminder of the differences.

His hands were shaking again, clenching the edge of the sink so tightly his knuckles had gone white. He – he needed to – to figure this out. He needed _time_. He needed – he didn’t know what he needed, but it was not being stuck in a tiny bathroom while two trained assassins lurked outside the door.

Wait.

Assassins?

_The League of Assassins_ , came the memory when he poked at the thought, a file spread across a massive set of displays, dark brown robes and fluid movements and that woman was smirking at him and there was green – green – _green_ –

No. He – he needed information. He needed a _starting point_.

He fished the newspaper out from under his shirt. It was in Russian, which was disappointing but not surprising. The year, however, was still legible, and Jason had to sit down while the room spun around him.

It had been two years.

_Two years_.

He – he was _seventeen_. He might even be eighteen, he didn’t know what month it was. He – he couldn’t believe –

Jason scrambled upright again, and started at himself in the mirror. Seventeen-maybe-eighteen years old. Yeah, he could believe it.

There was a sharp rap on the door. “Lady Talia has delivered further instructions,” Frowny said.

“Give me a minute,” Jason rasped back.

The newspaper was fluttering in his shaking hands as he looked over it again. He couldn’t read the articles, but the pictures might be informative – two people shaking hands, a building, a dog, children arrayed in front of a garden, a still of a soccer match, someone giving a speech on stage, heroes capturing a villain –

Batman. And Robin. Standing over the Joker.

Jason stared.

He couldn’t fucking _read Russian_ , no matter how hard he stared, the alphabet itself was incomprehensible, so he had no clue what the caption said, or the article underneath, but there had to be some reason they had put the picture there – in this newspaper, in a country far away, it had to be of some significance, it _had_ to – it –

That wasn’t his Robin suit.

The picture was black and white, but he didn’t need color to know that the design was off and the belt was larger and figure slimmer and holding some sort of staff. It wasn’t Dick, either.

Which meant.

Which _meant_.

_“You remain unavenged.”_

Laughter and shrieking and screaming and begging and the sickening sound of bones crunching under the onslaught of metal, the throbbing, tearing agony, _dying_ , the world going red and then black, fingers scrabbling at wood, crying, _please Batman, please Bruce, please Dad_ –

And. And _what_? And a new Robin and the Joker alive and well and Jason thought he’d _meant_ something and – and the memories were tearing forward too fast for him to stop them and everything was green and everything was red and someone was laughing and someone was screaming and someone was shouting.

_“Which hurts more?”_

_“You’re grounded.”_

_“I promise.”_

_“Bruce. P-please.”_

And he didn’t know when he’d left the bathroom but there were two faces in front of him and he was moving on instinct, instinct not made for this new, stronger, faster, taller body, but instinct all the same, and they weren’t expecting an attack – stupid and sloppy, they should’ve taken a crowbar to the face, or maybe _ten_ , and then they’d learn to be on their guard – and finally, Jason was heaving for breath in the middle of a silent, trashed room, knuckles bruised and stinging.

_“You remain unavenged.”_

Yeah. Jason had gotten the fucking memo.

Frowny and Cough Drop looked like they were enjoying their impromptu nap. Jason stepped past them, and towards the bags that hadn’t been there before, presumably dropped off with those _instructions_.

Jason was done dancing to other people’s tunes. Now he knew. It had been two years since he died.

Two years since he was murdered by the Joker, and Batman had done nothing about it.

Two years since he’d been replaced as if Robin was just an empty suit to fill.

Anger solidified into rage and sharpened into fury.

But unfortunately for all those involved, Jason had _come back_.

One of the bags had papers. Several sets of IDs and passports for Jason, under different names and ages. Money. Clothes and supplies.

Jason let his lips curve into a smile.

* * *

“I want the earliest flight out of here,” he told the desk attendant at Khorog International Airport. She blinked at him, at his attire, and his request.

“I’m sorry, sir, what –”

“The earliest flight. Whichever one that is.”

She stared at him for another stretching moment before looking down at her screen, “There is a flight to Moscow that departs in forty minutes.”

“Perfect,” Jason said, pulling out the Russian passport.

“Sir, but it has already starting boarding –”

“Not a problem,” he said, handing over the black credit card, “First class, please.”

* * *

Huh. Apparently he was in _Tajikistan_. Another country to cross off his list of ‘why do I never end up in these countries when I want to go sightseeing’.

* * *

Jason bought a change of clothes in Moscow at an exorbitant price, and added a colorful knit cap to cover the white streak in his hair. There, after gorging himself, buying several bags of snacks, and another couple sets of clothes that barely managed to fit into his bag, he headed for the ticket counter.

The next flight leaving, which happened to be Istanbul.

A different one to Dubai.

Another to London.

A flight to San Francisco, and Jason was wondering what the _limit_ on the card was.

And one nonstop, direct flight to New York City.

_Thank you very much, Talia al Ghul_.

* * *

The League of Assassins had resources, Jason knew that. It was kind of impossible _not_ to know that when he exchanged his Russian passport for an American one to board his flight, and tossed the credit card into a trash can with full knowledge of how many stacks of cash lay buried underneath bags of chips and cheap clothes. But Jason had finally taken off the blindfold and, half the puzzle or not, he was beginning to get a sense of the full picture.

Green pool. League of Assassins. The Demon’s Daughter herself, _“we will be found if we do not move”_ , the roundabout circling through the mountains.

He bought a newspaper in English. The caption for the picture was _‘Batman and Robin foil Joker’s latest plot’_. Jason couldn’t bring himself to read the article, not inside the middle of a bustling airport, not when he wanted to scream and rage and cry.

It didn’t matter how many pieces of the puzzle he had if he was planning on burning the whole fucking thing to the ground.

Batman was going to pay.

Jason remembered every second of that final, awful countdown, he remembered watching the numbers tick down, he remembered thinking _‘this is it, I’m going to die, this is it’_ , he remembered still believing that Batman was going to come and save him.

He hadn’t.

_“You remain unavenged.”_

He hadn’t stopped the Joker.

_‘Batman and Robin foil the Joker’s latest plot.’_

He’d just found someone else to fill those stupid boots.

Jason had died in fire, trapped in a coffin of broken rubble, and he was going to ensure that Batman learned _exactly_ what that felt like.

* * *

They passed the dizzying spires of Manhattan on their approach, and Jason could pick out the exact skyscraper that Nightwing and his Titans called home.

Dick had once given him a phone number and told Jason to call if he ever needed him.

Jason had called, before he went to the airport with a list of woman’s names.

Jason had called, but Dick hadn’t picked up.

* * *

“One ticket to Gotham, please.”

* * *

A hazy skyline. The faintest scent of salt on the breeze, buried underneath exhaust smoke and city pollution. The grime and darkness and grit that seemed to seep through his shoes as he took a step out of the airport.

He was home.


	2. Graveyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason gets all set up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to remind you all that the boy who got beaten, tortured, blown up, crawled out of his grave, and got his mind restored by magical rage water is not the most reliable narrator.

Hobbling to the taxi stand reminded him that his feet were still sore and aching, his muscles had flutters of cramping pains, and a couple of hours dozing in a flight was not the equivalent of a good night’s sleep.

“Where do you want to go?” one of the taxi drivers called out, scanning Jason from head to toe as if he was checking for easy prey.

“Sawyer and 8th,” Jason responded, Gotham drawl evident in his tone. The driver drooped slightly at the lack of an easy mark, but beckoned Jason towards his taxi. Jason hung onto his bag instead of placing it in the trunk – the driver lifted an eyebrow, but made no comment.

_Weird_ was a relative term in Gotham anyway.

Jason’s mouth went dry as they approached the city, and he only let go of his tight grip on the seat when they passed the turnoff to Bristol and headed across the bridge. The driver made no comment at passing so close to Crime Alley after dark – there was a hole-in-the-wall pizzeria at the address Jason had given, and 8th Street was pretty lively, despite being two blocks away from the collection of streets that made up Park Row.

In short, a perfectly believable address for a native Gothamite, _and_ an unobtrusive one. Not that it mattered – Jason wasn’t planning on staying on 8th Street.

Hotels were out – the fancier ones would balk at accepting payment in cash, and the motels that would accept crumpled bills were meant to be temporary and would draw too much attention to a regular. _And_ there were no motels in Crime Alley, which was where Jason wanted to stay for the duration of his plot against Batman.

He needed to _work_ on that plot. He couldn’t beat Batman in a fair fight. He couldn’t even beat Batman in an unfair fight. He needed to massively tip the odds in his favor, which meant time and planning and supplies.

His feet were stinging, scraped raw inside his shoes, but he was careful to keep his pace unhurried and hide his limp. He’d slung the duffel bag over one shoulder, and his stomach muscles were cramping with the effort it took to hide how much the bag weighed – the last thing he needed was for someone to realize he was hauling around cash.

Two blocks in, he was in Crime Alley, and he got off Sawyer to go deeper, emerging onto Westley Avenue and 5th Street. There were apartment buildings all around him, and Jason made for the one that had the newest ‘we’re renting’ sign.

There was a notice for office hours and a phone number underneath the sign, but Jason ignored it to press the buzzer for 1-A.

It was rare to see a company-owned apartment building in Crime Alley – company meant liability, meant someone to kick a fuss if the gangs came sniffing around for protection money, and Crime Alley had long been abandoned to the rats. It certainly made Jason’s job easier, because he couldn’t imagine an office manager agreeing to meet with him at eight in the evening on a Sunday, but a tired landlord showing him in with the brief flash of cash was all too possible.

“Your renter’s agreement,” the landlord – Mrs. Sally West – handed him a pen and concealed her yawn, “I’ll need three hundred dollars as a security deposit up front. Also an ID for a background check.”

Jason handed her four hundred dollars in twenties. “I lost my ID,” he said, his pen stuttering over the form as he looked up in apparent hesitation.

Mrs. West looked at him and sighed, “I’d appreciate it if you show me when you find it again.” He could see her thoughts on her face – he’d hunched his shoulders in to make himself deliberately smaller, and his knit cap was tugged over his ears. The picture of someone running away from something.

People believed that Crime Alley was filled with cutthroats. That wasn’t true – there was mercy and kindness, if you knew where to look for it, and if you made it worth their time. No one helped a charity case, but they’d conceal a teenage runaway for a hundred bucks.

“Of course,” Jason filled out the form with a scrawl and handed it back, taking the key she offered him.

Third floor. Fire escape. Small, but Jason had been in smaller, had slept in a cardboard box and squatted in abandoned buildings before he’d been whisked away to a mansion where all his dreams came true and showed him the price of the fantasy.

Batman. Batman was going to pay for what he did. Batman was going to pay for failing Jason.

The apartment was decent – small living area and kitchen, separate bedroom leading to bathroom. Surprisingly, it was clean – not new, not by any means, the building was definitely crumbling, but there was no mold or water damage on the walls, and no draft near the windows.

Strange.

Jason flipped through the packet of information Mrs. West had given him, and saw a Wayne Foundation flyer buried amidst it. It advertised the refurbishments made to the building to make it hospitable – refurbishments made to numerous other buildings in Crime Alley.

It – that had been one of Jason’s ideas.

Bruce had wanted him to start taking a more active role in the company, so Jason had chosen a cause, and had pointed out the nightmarish living conditions in Crime Alley, and Bruce had started several refurbishment projects aimed at Jason’s hometown.

They hadn’t finished before – before Jason had died.

And yet the projects had apparently continued anyway.

Jason stared at the flyer and, very slowly, crumpled it into a ball.

* * *

Jason woke up screaming, struggling against hard, polished wood, the taste of dirt on his tongue, his fingers shrieking in remembered agony, and only the sunlight filtering through the window reminded him where he was.

Jason squeezed his eyes shut and gasped for breath, tugging his hands back away from the wooden floor, and curling up into a ball.

_Breathe_ , said a gentle, firm voice, _inhale. Slowly_.

Jason clapped his hand over his ears, like that would stop the fucking voices in his head. He didn’t _need_ to breathe, he needed to kill Batman – okay, he needed to breathe too, but that wasn’t the _point_ –

Jason glowered at the ceiling.

It was the beginning of April. One year and eleven months ago, he’d walked into a warehouse and died. And now he was alive, he was in Gotham, he was seventeen years old, and he was going to kill Batman.

He managed to wash his face and brush his teeth – he needed to buy soap and towels, he desperately wanted a shower – and got all the way to the kitchen before he remembered that the only food he had was exorbitantly priced vending machine chips.

Food. Another item on the list. And everything he needed to defeat Batman, starting with a bomb.

But he couldn’t just find a bomb on the streets, he needed to be careful about this. And careful meant time, meant he needed the basics to outfit his apartment, and new clothes, and better shoes. A first aid kit, and something to treat his blisters. A cell phone?

And he needed to catch up on everything he’d missed over the last two years.

His stomach cramped painfully, and Jason headed for the door. Food first.

* * *

The _Robinson Market_ in East End was moderately popular for groceries and essentials and Jason ducked inside, wincing slightly as the door chimed. The morning rush hadn’t started yet, it was only nine, but the shop was slowly filling up and Jason grabbed a basket, intending to get in and out as quickly as he could.

The airplanes had been bad enough. Strapped to a seat, trapped in an enclosed space – at least the movies and solicitous flight attendants had distracted him, and there had been plenty of empty seats in first class.

But ducking through narrow aisles as he tried to avoid brushing past people was straining his nerves. He managed to get the first aid kit, toiletries, and fruits before loitering in the ramen aisle, staring intently at the different flavors and trying to remember how to breathe.

The aisle was empty, but not for long – Jason felt his skin prickle as another shopper turned into it. A young woman, basket hanging from her arm, purse on the other shoulder. She’d thankfully stopped at the far end of the aisle, and Jason tried to ignore her as he picked up a couple of vegetable cup noodles and dropped them in his basket.

Someone entered from the _other_ end of the aisle, and Jason nearly bit through his lip. He pressed closer against the shelf and glared at the packet of cup noodles in front of him as the other shopper slowly, casually strolled down the aisle.

_Get your fucking noodles and get out_ , Jason mentally aimed at the other guy, and exhaled slowly when he passed him. He stepped back, and hurriedly grabbed another pack of cup noodles before heading away from the two shoppers – he needed to find a different aisle.

He cast a quick glance back, and his movements stuttered. The second shopper was slowly making his way towards the young woman, his gaze alternating between the noodles and her. Jason felt a familiar frisson down his spine, an instinct that had never served him wrong, and abruptly changed course.

The man had almost reached the young woman, his gaze fixed on colorful noodle packaging even as he leaned in the direction of her purse, and Jason roughly shouldered between them.

The young woman yelped and pressed closer to the shelf, turning with a scowl already fixed on her face. The would-be thief pressed back as well, the glint of a blade disappearing back into his sleeve as he frowned.

“Sorry,” Jason muttered, pausing a beat to narrow his eyes at the potential thief, who gulped and stepped away. Jason spun on his heel and ducked into the next aisle, fighting the urge to ball his hands into fists.

And _this_ was what really pissed Jason off. Batman liked to pretend that the only crimes worth stopping were the ones that happened under the cover of darkness, or by a freak in a mask, but there were so many everyday things that needed to be stopped.

Muggings, thieves, store hold-ups, sexual harassment, corporate greed – the list went on and on and _on_. But no, Batman didn’t care about that, and Bruce Wayne didn’t care about that, and the cops certainly didn’t care about that, and everyone in this city was so focused on the lunatics in Arkham that they’d forgotten about the everyday criminals on the streets.

Jason stopped dead when he realized that the freezer doors were beginning to turn green.

It was like someone had slipped a pair of glasses on him – the green tint was _everywhere_ , and the faster his heart raced, the darker it got, sticking him in a vicious cycle of increasing panic and fury.

Jason clenched his basket tightly, not even registering the pain, and pressed a palm flat against the freezer door – the shock of cold caused the green to stutter, and Jason swung the door open, pretending he was looking for ice cream as he watched the green slowly recede.

“– been lurking around the docks at night.”

“Should take a sick day, man. Anything that’s caught the Bat’s attention isn’t worth it.”

Fingers tightened on the door handle, knuckles going white.

“He’s showed every night for a _week_ , I’ll get fired if I don’t –”

The voices trailed off as they left the aisle, but Jason could still hear them if he strained, two dockworkers grumbling about the night shift, about their employer, about finding a different job if it turned out that Batman was after them.

Jason let go of the freezer door, and watched it swing shut.

He was moving, and he couldn’t tell where, he couldn’t tell _why_ , he could hear _‘Bat’_ echoing in his ears like an out of tune radio – he needed to get out here, too many people, too much damage –

A flash of bright red, and Jason adjusted course.

The color was familiar, soothing, home and safety and aching loss all wrapped up in one, and Jason took heaving breaths as he buried his face in the soft material. Breaths in, hold, then out, just like he’d been trained, just like he’d practiced for years.

It was terrifying. That was two times he’d lost control this morning alone, and if Jason managed to take out two trained assassins when he was lost in the howling green, how much more damage could he do to civilians?

He – he needed to figure this out. He needed _help_ , but finding Talia al Ghul was the absolute last thing he wanted to do.

Jason took a deep breath and let it out shakily. One step at a time. First, kill Batman.

He raised his head and realized that he was clutching a bright red hoodie. 

The color was unsubtle, but it was soft and warm. Not the hoodie that his mother – Catherine – _his mother_ had given him, but it was a connection to her, and Jason seized it.

Not like prancing around in traffic light colors had been subtle, anyway.

_And look how that turned out_ , something in his mind hissed.

Jason set his jaw and headed for the checkout counter.

* * *

The hoodie was just as warm and soft as it looked.

* * *

Information. He needed information, and the best place in the city to get it was Gotham City Public Library.

Applying for a card would have to wait until Jason managed to scrounge up a fake ID – neither of which he needed to kill Batman, those went on the _after_ list – but he didn’t need a card to use one of the computers. He stepped past the front desk – the blond had his nose in a book, and the redhead in a wheelchair was turned away, talking to a group of kids – and towards the computers at the back.

He couldn’t stop the shiver at the tall shelves and colorful covers, the rush of nostalgia both uplifting and heartbreakingly painful. The library had been his refuge for so many years, a place where Jason could lose himself in a story and forget all about the real world and its problems. Where it didn’t matter if he was hungry or tired or didn’t have a place to sleep, all that mattered was the next page, and the next, and the next.

He chose a computer closer to the corner, and double-checked to make sure there was no camera in easy sight. Not that anyone was going to recognize a dead boy, especially when the boy himself couldn’t, but Jason didn’t want anyone to even get an inkling that he was back. Not until he’d finished what he’d come for.

Jason pulled up the search engine, then hesitated. With trembling fingers, he typed out _‘Jason Todd’_.

The first article was a Wikipedia page, the second was on his death and funeral. Jason clicked it, and tightened his fingers into a fist at the immediate photo of Bruce and Alfred standing over a closed coffin.

_Wood and satin and clawing and tearing and gasping_ –

Jason hastily scrolled past the photo. The article was the typical oozing sympathy over a kid they’d all called a charity case, but there were some interesting pieces of information there.

Small funeral. Bruce, Alfred, Commissioner Gordon.

The article gleefully speculated over the absence of Richard Grayson, and Jason had to fight the urge to scream – Dick had barely cared about him alive, why would he take the time out of his day to visit his failed successor?

No Babs either, and that was a deeper pang – she’d practically been an older sister to him, all those years of tutoring and hanging out as Robin and Batgirl and teaching him the tricks of the trade. Guess in the end, all he’d been was _not good enough_.

He hadn’t been buried at the Manor. The article mentioned a plot at Gotham Hill Cemetery – an expensive graveyard, but a public one. Making sure to keep the street trash where he belonged.

Jason clicked out of the article, unwilling to read any more reminders of how easily they’d cast him aside, and went back to his digging. Searching outright for Batman and Robin was too obvious, and he knew that Batgirl had some sort of algorithm running to sniff out anyone who got too close to their identities. He’d start by checking out if there was anything new happening at the docks.

Jason’s fingers typed, of their own accord, _J._

_O._

_K._

_E._

_R._

Jason stared at the screen, hovering over _enter_. The screen was green.

He hit _backspace_ instead.

* * *

Jason had no idea what possessed him to get flowers – it was his own grave, _and_ there wasn’t a body in it. Flowers were a stupid idea, but he’d shelled out ten bucks for the overpriced bouquets they were selling on the cart outside and shuffled in, drawing his hood up.

He had no idea where exactly he was buried, and he meandered up and down the paths – it was a large cemetery, and people were starting to stop by after work. The breeze ruffled gently through the trees, drowning out the soft murmurs and sometimes the quiet tears. It caused goosebumps to rise up, which Jason thought was pretty funny – of all the people in the cemetery, he was the one who had the most right to be here.

The sun was setting by the time he found the right gravestone. _‘Jason Peter Todd’_ the headstone proclaimed, _‘Beloved Son’_.

Beloved son. Not beloved enough to put the _‘Wayne’_ up there – his legal name had changed with his adoption, even though Jason had continued to go by ‘Todd’ at school. Jason – Jason had been thinking about a permanent change as the summer had drawn closer, but before he could ask Bruce, he’d been fired and murdered.

At least he’d avoided the sting of rejection.

Jason crouched in the grass – the scent of fresh dirt filled his mouth, and he suppressed it, he wasn’t going back down there, nothing was going to grab his ankles and pull him under, screaming and clawing and –

Jason hastily stood up and backed up a step. This was Gotham, after all. No need to take chances.

He put the bouquet down, and looked around – Catherine Todd wasn’t buried here, there had been no money for a funeral, but Bruce had set up a small marker in the Wayne family graveyard and a beautiful angel statue fountain in the garden to remember her by, and maybe he moved it here, maybe he’d given Jason the chance to be buried next to his mother in spirit.

Jason caught the name on the headstone next to his, and froze.

_‘Sheila Haywood’_ it proclaimed, _‘Beloved Mother’_.

Blonde hair and blue eyes, smiling sweetly, ever so sweetly, crooking a finger and beckoning him inside and he’d followed her like the desperate fool he was, aching for any family that would have him.

And the laughter, and the gun pointed straight at him, and those cold blue eyes watching as the crowbar came _down_ and _down_ and _down_ , puffing a cigarette as Jason screamed and writhed, and the only justice in the world was that the Joker had killed her too.

_Beloved mother_.

Jason wanted to turn that headstone into rubble with his bare hands.

His father – his _real_ father – had gotten himself locked up and killed. His mother – his _real mother_ , not this two-faced, conniving, heartless _bitch_ – had died by inches, wasting away in front of his eyes.

Sheila had thrown him to a monster to save her own skin.

And Bruce had washed his hands of the whole affair.

The last, small, flickering hope that maybe he’d cared, maybe there was an explanation, maybe there was _something_ , some reason for why the Joker wasn’t dead, why there was a new Robin, why Bruce hadn’t _found_ him, was extinguished like a smothered flame.

He was just another dead kid in a city full of dead kids.

And Gotham never wept for dead kids.

* * *

The green showed up when he was angry. Not annoyance or irritation, but fear, helpless frustration, the kind of angry that made tears prickle in his eyes and his hands curl into fists.

Robin had once been an outlet for that anger. A way to _help_ , so he didn’t lose himself in destruction. That clearly hadn’t worked.

Right now, putting his fist through a wall – or, better yet, a _face_ – was sounding like a pretty good idea.

Jason stuck to the shadows on his way back to his new apartment, knowing that his bright red hoodie was a glaring target, and finding himself incapable of caring. _Let_ someone try something. Jason might’ve still been getting used to this new body, to his new center of gravity and longer limbs and muscles stiff and sore, but he had three years of vigilante training, a solid grasp of dirty tactics, and hyperawareness prickling at his skin.

That hyperawareness made him twitch when he saw a shadowed figure duck into an alley.

Jason sped up, turning the corner right when a muffled cry broke the air – two figures were struggling, one pressed flat against the brick wall, trying to twist away, and the other, larger, a knife in their hand.

Jason didn’t bother calling out a warning or yelling for them to back off. He took five steps forward and drove his elbow into the arm holding the knife, twisting the fist back, ignoring the _snap_ and subsequent howl of pain, and kicking the back of the figure’s knees to send the assailant to the floor.

The other figure twisted free, scraping against the wall as he backed up. College student, Jason pegged, studying the backpack and travel mug of coffee as the kid gasped for breath.

“You okay?” Jason asked, aiming a vicious kick to the assailant’s ribs before turning away. The kid nodded, taking a deep, shuddering breath before gripping his backpack tighter.

“Thanks,” he said, edging back out of the alley, scanning Jason’s red sweatshirt and the groaning man on the floor.

“Be careful,” Jason frowned, “It’s not safe to walk around here late at night.”

The kid barked out a harsh, slightly hysterical chuckle. “Believe me,” he said, “I know.” He gave a half-shrug, “Not like we have much choice though.” His voice turned slightly bitter, “Not like Batman ever shows up around here.”

“Relying on Batman is a mistake that’ll get you killed,” Jason said, so quiet that the kid stuttered a step away from _him_. “Get some pepper spray, learn how to throw a right hook, and watch your surroundings.”

It was always about Batman. This city had survived before the Dark Knight showed up, and it would survive after he was gone.

_Soon_ , something in his mind promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *settles in to ignore the shouting*

**Author's Note:**

> Canon divergence means first acknowledging that there exists a canon to diverge from.
> 
> Characters, relationships, and tags will be updated as the story progresses.


End file.
